Punctuation
by archer hates you
Summary: Shuuhei deserves a break.
1. Punctuation

Once again, nighttime punctuated a seamless continuation of one static day. The past few weeks had been a blur of hurried work, always something to do—to mediate, to repair, to fill out, fill in, step up. He felt less like a shinigami and more like a machine, necessary only for completing mindless tasks, emotionless. It was best to ignore emotions, anyway. He'd been doing his job well.

But people had been looking at him differently of late. He'd been through several phases of being looked at already; at the Academy it began with apprehension. He must have been intimidating from the start, the way people shied their glances away from him. He figured it was mostly the tattoo—what did he care anyway, it meant something to him—but the mask he wore was likely just as off-putting, if not more so. Scrutinizing eyes, careless hair, the silent I-don't-give-a-shit-for-your-conventions attitude. But then he started to impress. His grades were top-notch, his technical skills incredible, and they couldn't afford to glance away anymore. Their eyes softened to him as they learned that looks weren't everything.

Which is why he was rather distressed when they began to glance away again. It was only some bandages, only a healing injury, only a few scars. Maybe it wasn't the look this time, but the story behind the look; he hadn't felt that it was him they were afraid of, as before. No—now he was a walking reminder to every student that this wasn't just an education. This wasn't a game. This was real, and there were real Hollows out there, and no matter how tough you are those Hollows would really hurt you, and they really would kill you. But hell. If anything, he was glad to be that reminder. Sometimes all a struggling student needs is a swift kick in the ass, and he was happy to administer it.

Something was different when the phase restarted this time. Now there was no mark—no ink, no new scar, no visible stigma to blame for their odd pattern of looks. And the pattern had changed. This time they didn't steal glimpses; they stared, hard, looking deep into him—for what, he wasn't sure. Comparing him against themselves, perhaps. _Am I like him? Am I smarter than that? Would I have known? Would I still be standing?_ Instead of laying his personality bare for the averted eyes of passersby, now he was the one who hid from the shameless gazes of those same onlookers, shy no more.

It was easier to hide at night. The quotidian commotion lessened, traffic slowed, rooms darkened to his liking. He stood in the doorway to his office, swallowing up the tasty solitude of it and allowing his eyes to adjust to the phantom pinpricks of light in his sight.

"Hisagi?"

He whipped around at the sound, realizing all too late how close he'd been standing to the door. Tabi offer little protection against wooden frames.

"Lieutenant Ise?"

"Just Nanao."

He curled his pained toes against the tatami floor. "What's going on?"

"I came to see if you're alright."

Still gripping the frame of the offending door, he looked up, biting his tongue. Usually when he was confronted with this issue, he'd give a tired nod and insist that he was handling everything just swimmingly—he was sleeping enough, his squad was healthy and happy (as was possible), et cetera. But Nanao was different. Even if he lied—which he didn't feel inclined to doing—something told him that she'd know. And she wouldn't have the grace to let it go so easily.

"I'm not."

She nodded slowly at the floor, knowing. "Is there anything I can do?"

What, about his defector captain and the barrage of daily guilt for not seeing it coming and the agony of being pitied more than left alone to the momentous task of taking over? About that, you mean? He knew he shouldn't be so sour, but it couldn't be helped. Maybe that sourness was the sign that he really did need . . . something, from anyone.

Being with Komamura had helped some at first, when they'd sit together at that nameless grave that Tōsen had held so dear. Soon, though, Komamura began to speak; he'd been so open about the past, _so_ vocal, that Shūhei became uncomfortable. He'd still been too deep in denial to want to hear about it, even to think about it. But more recently he felt as if the captain was less willing to talk; unfortunate, as Shūhei had finally warmed to the idea of discussing what had been done to them and was now rather anxious to do so. Painful as the feeling was, he felt that an opportunity had passed.

Yet here was Nanao. Some things she couldn't help, and Shūhei knew that, but she had always seemed the type to understand far more than she'd been told. There was something masculine in her demeanor that told him she wouldn't press him. She would listen if he spoke, respond if he wanted it; she wouldn't say too much, she wouldn't push too far, she wouldn't urge anything excruciating from him, force anything upon him. She would just _be_ with him. Maybe that was the kind of attention he needed.

Maybe tomorrow would finally look different.

"I'd like for you to try."

One corner of her mouth turned up in a sad smile.

"Come on," he said, turning back into the doorway.

But her little hand closed around his wrist. "No no. Eight."

"Huh?"

"You've been doctoring your squad for far too long. You need to come away from here."

He frowned, because she was right. He'd lashed himself to this place and made himself available to his men at all hours. Maybe he _wasn't_ sleeping enough. . . . Beside the point. No, he couldn't screw around. He was needed.

"I really should be on hand here."

"No you shouldn't. Take a night off for once."

"It's not like I haven't wound down at all. I went with Matsumoto and Kira—"

"Oh I heard, I got an earful about that." She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, subtle, putting the slightest smirk into her cheeks. "_They looked like they were having so much fun,_" she drawled, raspy. Shūhei had to smile as she put a thin hand to her brows as the brim of a hat. "_But I was turned away for someone else's fear of being reprimanded by you, my sweet._" She rolled her eyes.

"That's pretty good."

"Thanks, I've been working on it. Now come on. We've got plenty sake of our own."

With a hitch in only the first step he took, Shūhei willingly obeyed.


	2. omake ending

A/N: Take it or leave it. Both endings suit me just fine.

* * *

0243 hours. Kyōraku breezes into the eighth squad's headquarters, reeking of alcohol, and somehow manages not to trip over his lieutenant and her guest.

"Oh my. Isn't that something."

Arms linked, primly they sit leaning on a row of bookshelves, dozing; her cheek lies against his shoulder, his ear against her hair. Her glasses are folded up in his hand.

"My little Nanao. All grown up and seducing the boy next door."


End file.
